I trudge through the rest of the day. I don’t take the lift lest I make someone uncomfortable through the eighteen-floor elevator ride. I take the stairs. My knees hurt by the time I reach the ground floor.
On the way home, I drive absentmindedly and stop at the supermarket. I don’t need anything urgently, not that I can remember. Maybe Tide. Or a scrubber. I don’t even know why I walked in. Of course, I know why I walked in. I just don’t want to accept it. I enter through the vegetable section and walk slowly past watermelons and kiwis. And that’s when I see them. Where I knew I would see them.
My parents. And Shilpi.
They’re doing what they—and once we—used to do.
Maa is reading the backs of two almost identical rice packs, lips moving as she reads the price labels. Papa is standing near the cart, looking at the grocery accumulated, pissed off at howmuch stuff needs to be bought to stay alive. And Shilpi... she’s standing next to the impulse-buy rack. Quiet. Holding a phone cover. Blue and glittery. She keeps it in her hand as they move from aisle to aisle. Never puts it in the cart. Just holds it, turning it over in her palm, pressing it slightly.
They make their way to the checkout. Papa argues briefly about a coupon code not applying. Maa says something about getting toothpaste next time. Shilpi stays quiet. Right before the scanner, she walks up and quietly places the cover aside on the edge of the counter. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at it again.
I watch all of it happen from behind a display of chips. Just as it’s about to get scanned, Maa picks it up. The conversation happens in a matter of looks. Shilpi pleads. Maa says she bought one a couple of months ago. More pleading. And then, Maa rejecting the pleas. I watch on as she goes and puts it back on the rack.
I make a couple of purchases and leave. I look for their car. The colour used to be easy to spot. A near green, fluorescent-tinted Honda City. But today, I can’t see it anywhere. Did they come by taxi? But Papa hates taking cabs. Did I miss it? Did I forget what our car looks like? And then I spot it. The parking sticker. ‘Block C – 118’ on the top-left corner of the windshield of a Hyundai Creta. A new fucking car. It ticks me off. They went ahead and bought a car? It looksnotnew. At least six months old. So that’s what they have been doing! Just living their lives. Vulgar.
Shilpi in all her messages asking, ‘You okay?’ didn’t mention it too.
I turn back and stare at the sticker again. Block C. 118.
I crouch down next to it. Press the valve on the front left tyre. Watch the air hiss out slowly. Then do the same to the rear one.Then I place the phone cover I bought for her on the windshield, stride towards my car and leave for my apartment.
20
Aditi
There’s a knock on my door. Three taps. A rhythm I’ve come to associate with him. I don’t answer immediately. I look around my room. It’s embarrassing. But it’s not like he hasn’t seen it. In fact, I like annoying him like this. He comes, he wanders, he cleans what he can and then walks out. But the past few days have been hard for him—harder than usual. His office has always been hectic, he has designed it to be hectic, but he’s drained by the time he comes back because of all the conversations he has had to have with everyone. I try to do my part—cook a little, clean a little better, but sooner or later my willpower gives in. It’s a hard job—to live. Dying is way easier.
He knocks again. I get up and open the door. He’s wearing jeans and a faded grey tee, and has an imperfect shave.
‘We should go,’ he says, eyes behind me, roving at how unorganized I am. I’m sure he’s assessing what he can fix.
‘Where?’
‘Please don’t be naive. I’m coming too.’
‘Of course, you’re not.’ The words hang there, heavier than I expect. Clearly, he hasn’t thought this through. People in grief seldom do. I know. I cross my arms and try to drive the point across. ‘And do what there exactly? Apologize to them?’
He nods again, now suddenly smaller.
I scoff. ‘That’s a fucked-up plan, Raghav.’
He doesn’t react.
‘It wasn’t your fault. How many times do I have to tell you that? If anything, they played a part.’
He shrugs. And then I tell him that I tell myself every few hours like a fucking mantra. ‘You weren’t the pilot. You didn’t build the plane. You didn’t even want to be there that day. You were forced to by circumstances. It was the perfect storm. Or the perfect imperfect storm. Whichever way you look at it.’
‘I could have gone to Lucknow to pick her up.’
I laugh pitifully. ‘Then you would have died too. What difference would that make to Megha’s parents? You’re not making any sense. And seriously, how stupid are you to think saying sorry will give them peace?’
He doesn’t answer.
I keep going. ‘You’re doing it for yourself. Just admit that. You want to get it off your chest.’
‘Maybe.’ A pause. ‘You coming or not?’
I look at him. At the shadows under his eyes. I feel sorry for him. I feel angry. Because I see myself in him and I hate myself and I hate him and I hate everything about ourselves. There was a time when he was him, and I was me, but ever since that day, we seem to be this congealed mass of sadness. There’s hardly anything to distinguish between me and him. We had the same stories of heartbreak with our families, the promise of a new love story, but now we are the same. There are differences—he buried himself in work, cliché, and I buried myself in thoughts of Aman, cliché again, but we are the same. I don’t remember who I was, or who he was. I don’t even know who he was. He was a stranger, and he’s in many ways still a stranger. Who could he be if that morning hadn’t happened? Who would I have been? How would our double dates looked like? Would we have hated each other? Would he have found me untidy? Would I have found him to be uptight? Who would we have been? Attwenty-three, we are nothing except that day and our response to it.
